USA

mkrauter@hamilton.net

The Look

It's been a long while since
a baby has been in love with me,
since one lay on my chest
with with wide-open gaze, big blocks
of color, bits of corner white
committed to my face.
Some cliches blink true,
past overuse, past falling frequently
from tongues like the one of eyes
windows, souls.

Daily clusters of usualness occur--
the clerk drops change in my my hand,
the librarian slides the book across
the desk, eyes meet eyes, but duties
glaze connection until one moment
something changes, something true
as a baby on my chest. Life is not
more lucid but eyes connect 
like constellated stars one to another.
The "look" has passed through time
as though God, surprised at his face
in a pond, said, "Yes" to eyes. Yes 
to the seafarer searching for red-tiled
roof through eyepiece. Yes to the woman
who senses his look, straightens bent back
from onion-pulling, re-braids 
her hair, waits at water's edge.

The "look" rivets survivor to soldier,
meshes student to teacher, 
is honest like swallowing nourishment,
like warm-flame flicker of hand over
candle. One pair of eyes stoke,
another pair burn, and the "look"
survives the quickness of living.

© Copyright, 01/01/00, Mary Jackson Krauter.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.